


Tenebris Resurget

by Matthew81



Series: Storm Heralds [1]
Category: Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:00:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29755836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Matthew81/pseuds/Matthew81
Summary: On a supposedly routine mission a group of Space marines find they must pursue a deadly foe. This story is a sequel to my previous story Serrati Stella's.
Series: Storm Heralds [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2186892
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

Storm Heralds Reading List

Book1 Maledicti Venator, Serrati Stellas, Tenebris Resurget.

Tenebris Resurget

950.M41

From high on the mountainside one could see for hundreds of miles, the endless plains sweeping away until they hazed to nothing. Dotted over that plain were soaring cathedrals and minarets, all gilded in gold and boasting pointed spires or outlandish statues. Sacellum was a shrine world, an entire planet set aside for the worship of the Emperor, its every resource poured into glorifying Him on Terra while the huddled masses starved in shanty towns around the foundations of the Basilicas and Templums.

Standing high on the mountainside was a giant in power armour, basking in the sharp morning sun. He carried a chainsword and bolt pistol and bore Sergeant's markings, his name was Toran of the Ninth Company of the Storm Heralds Chapter. He stood surveying the world below, comparing it to his own Chapters' practices of Emperor deification and not liking the similarities he was seeing. In disgust he turned and looked around behind him but the sight was hardly better.

Before him were the bloody remains of a battlefield, stretching from the forested foothills all the way up the slopes to the craggy cliff faces of the mountain. Covering the field were thousands of mutant corpses, sprinkled with power armoured bodies. Some were in the blue and grey of his Chapter but others bore a far darker hue adorned with jagged lightning bolts, flayed skin and polished skulls. Scattered among the corpses were the burnt out wrecks of Rhinos and Predators, Land Speeders and even the limping form of a Dreadnought, its amniotic coffin burst and leaking as it staggered into the hold of a Thunderhawk Transporter. For this had been the last battleground of the invasion of Sacellum, where the Imperium had finally crushed the forces of the pirate Night Lord Vorshaan, who had plagued this sector since before Toran was born.

Moving through the battlefield were hundreds of grey-clad Chapter Serfs, combing the ground meticulously, searching for the bodies of honoured Battle-Brothers and lost Chapter artefacts. Most of them were young boys, failed aspirants and sons of older Serfs but a few were grey-haired. These were branded with the Chapter symbol to indicate their status as Overseers. Toran saw more than a few boys pocketing spent bolt shell casings, trying to garner luck or simply to be closer to their Transhuman Masters. A prohibited practice but one absolutely nobody could be bothered to enforce. They all sang work songs as they laboured, ancient chanties whose words had lost all meaning over the millennia but whose spirit endured.

Toran walked through the wasteland, stepping over mutant bodies and respectfully avoiding the honoured fallen. He passed by Apothecary Memnos who was kneeling to perform his sacred duty of harvesting the gene-seed of the dead, it went without saying the Traitors own progenoids would be burned. Toran saw his squad patrolling the site, guarding the serfs and the Chapter's legacy then he approached two of his brothers, who were walking together in deep discussion. One of them was Novak, a young and inexperienced Marine but a prodigy with a blade in his hand. The other was Halis Paur who had only been with them a few days. He had been part of a squad in Seventh Company but had seen them all wiped out in an ambush and been left for dead himself. So severe were his injuries he had been confined to the Apothecarion for almost a whole week and then after taking spiritual council had been reassigned to IXth squad. Toran wasn't sure what to make of his new subordinate, for he was intelligent but also bitter and cynical, however given what Halis had lost that was understandable.

Toran marched up to the pair and said, "Halis, Novak, you two seem distracted. Exactly what pressing concern takes up your attention?"

Novak didn't catch the subtle admonishment and replied candidly, "I was just wondering what IXth squad did to earn this assignment? I mean we barely saw a hint of glory in the battle, my blade tasted nothing but mutant blood and now we are stuck here guarding the clean-up crews."

Halis let out a derisive snort and said, "Ha child, if you wanted glory you should have joined a Battle company, we are a Reserve Company. We get all the crap assignments."

There was a sound from behind them and suddenly a deep baritone voice barked, "I trust you are not disparaging the recovery of the Chapter's sacred relics and noble steeds as 'crap'."

They turned and saw a Red-Clad Techmarine standing behind them, his servo harness bearing plasma cutters and hydraulic arms. His name was Hevostan and he was an old acquaintance of Toran's.

Hevostan had only recently completed his training on Mars and had returned a changed man. Everything from his enhanced armour, servo harness and cold, detached demeanour was different. If it had not been for his baritone voice and habit of cussing under his breath he would have been unrecognisable. Toran had tried to talk to him in passing but the Techmarine seemed distant and uninterested in reminiscing.

Toran faced his old friend and deflected, "Of course not Honoured Techmarine, we are merely contemplating our duty to the Emperor."

Hevostan replied coldly, "Strange for it sounds as if your squad does not appreciate the contribution of the Omnissiah to this victory. Many sacred machine spirits were sacrificed to the Traitors guns."

Toran cocked an eyebrow and remarked, "If you are concerned by the amount of veneration the Machine Spirits receive I suggest you attend to those serfs over there."

Hevostan turned and saw a crowd of serfs gathered around a burnt out Predator, there was a throaty roar followed by cheers as they coaxed its engine back into life. Furiously Hevostan raced off muttering under his breath, "Shunt, Error, Abort, those fools awaken a wounded steed without first offering sacred unguents or the litanies of appeasement! Did the Overseers take them for servitors and lobotomise them by mistake?"

Toran watched him go and sighed at the lost friendship, then he looked over the battlefield as something caught his eye. Working among the serfs was a towering figure, gene bulked and densely packed with muscle. He wore a serfs' plain tabard but there was no disguising he was an Astartes by nature.

Toran paused in curiosity and said to Novak "Who is that?"

Novak glanced over and replied, "Him? That is Bylan, he was a younger Aspirant when I was still in the Scout-Novices."

Bemused Toran inquired, "He was a failed aspirant? That is unusual, most who make it that far into the gene seed implantation either succeed or die. I have never heard of someone going so far and then failing. Were his skills inadequate or perhaps his purity was found wanting during the rite of the Emperor's Storm?"

"Perhaps it would have been easier if it was so," replied Novak, "Tragically he made it all the way into the Scouts but then there were some issues with gene-seed compatibility, I am no apothecary but I recall barracks talk about his Multi-lung not taking. The last time I saw him the Chaplains were taking him away to the Serf's quarter where he could still make some contribution to the Chapter."

"A shame," said Toran eyeing the youth, "But then it is not for lesser men to understand the mysteries of the Emperor's gene-craft."

They walked on and surveyed the battlefield, watching the serfs as they worked. Novak sighed and with the whine of youth said "This is dull."

Toran retorted, "This is a great triumph the end of a threat that has plagued the Imperium for ten thousand years. Songs will be sung of what occurred here, you should be honoured to be present."

"Yes but Vorshaan the Dusk Prince is dead, his head mounted on a pole and his pirate fleet scattered to the nine vectors. So why are we still here?" whined Novak.

Halis rolled his eyes and snapped, "This is an important duty; the Chapter could not long survive if we failed to harvest the gene-seed or just left every fallen bolter and vehicle where they lay."

"You want to know what it is I don't understand?" said Novak ignoring the admonishment.

"No I don't," sighed Halis, "But I am sure you are going to tell us anyway."

Novak kicked headless red armoured corpse and said, "We were supposed to be fighting Night Lords but according to my hypno-indoctrination these are the colours of the Khorne Berserkers, over there is a Noise Marine, that's Alpha Legion and that one... I don't even know whose colours that is."

Halis snorted in derision, "Ha, You are mistaken to think these traitors have any more loyalty to their Legions, or each other, than they do to Terra. They care for nothing but themselves and the spoils of war. In a Chaos warband one fights alongside whomever suits at the moment, even their fealty to the Dark Powers comes from expectation of reward not brotherhood."

Toran was surprised by the bitterness his Halis' voice but after what he had suffered perhaps it was understandable. He was about to join in but was interrupted by a new voice piping up.

"My lord" the voice came, deep and resonant as only the Transhuman could be. Yet there was a breathlessness present, a weak quiver that Toran had never heard in any brother before. He turned and saw the serf Bylan, standing before him with his head bowed in respect, his youthful stubble a contrast to his tonsured scalp.

Toran eyed the nervous serf and said, "Do not keep us waiting boy, what is it you want?"

Bylan did not dare look up as he said, "Master we regret to report we have lost contact with one of our worker parties scouring the highlands, all attempts to raise them have failed. Overseer Gregor humbly requests permission to send out a search party."

Toran flexed his arms and put one hand on the hilt of his chainsword and said, "I can do better than that, I will go myself."

"My lord?" asked Bylan with a youthful quiver of hesitation.

"Relax," said Toran, "This will be an easy task and I could use the exercise. Halis, Novak care to join me for a stroll?"

The two brothers grinned and hefted their weapons at the prospect of relief from this dull duty. Toran turned to the serf and said, "Boy, ask Overseer Gregor to provide us with a guide."

"With respect Master," replied the boy, "I was in the highlands yesterday morning, I know the route well."

"Very well" replied Toran, then he keyed his vox, "Brother Furion, some lost serfs need to be ushered back. You're in charge until I get back."

And with that they blithely they set off, with little idea what horrors awaited them.


	2. Chapter 2

Tenebris Resurget Chapter 2

Up the high sides of the mountain climbed four figures, each a massively over muscled Transhuman. Three were clad in blessed ceramite plates but they walked with their faces exposed, to any casual observer they would have appeared to be out for gentle stroll but these were the Imperium's Finest and there was no moment where they were not prepared for battle. Their eyes constantly scanned the terrain, subconsciously evaluating threats and their hands were never more than a hairbreadth away from their weapons. The fourth however wore only grey robes and had his eyes were fixed firmly upon the ground before his feet, trying not to humiliate himself before his Masters.

As they walked Novak drifted closer to Toran and said, "So Sergeant, how much longer do you think we will be on this wretched world?"

Toran thought about it for a moment then said, "A day, perhaps two, to retrieve the Chapters' relics and collect the armour of the honoured dead. Most of the squads from Seventh and Ninth Companies have already boarded the Light of Terra and Captain Jossat is leading Fourth Company to ceremonially present the Traitor Vorshaan's head to the local Imperial Governor."

"So where next?" asked Novak, "Rumour has it a rebellion stirs amongst the dreaming spires of Sucaris or that the Psybrid Xenos are stirring from their Nest, they could threaten the Forgeworld Crux Lapis if ignored."

"No," replied Toran, "Not this time, our companies are to return to Lujan II, to replenish the ranks."

Novak smiled and said, "No doubt we will also be covered in glory for our great victory here."

Toran frowned as he remarked, "Tread carefully young one, a Space Marine does not seek glory for its own sake and duty should ever be forefront in his mind."

"Yes Sergeant," replied Novak in the brash tones of youth that proclaimed he was not at all admonished, "Still it will be good to see our homeworld's oceans once more and taste the purity of the Emperor's Storm."

Now it was Toran's turn to smile, "Yes indeed, it has been too long since we felt the unleashed fury of the hurricane on our faces."

The Sergeant reflected on this for a moment, the Storm Herald's homeworld was covered in vast oceans and boasted an unusually slow rotation rate. The result of this was that the majority of the planet's weather was gathered into a series of epic stormfronts, that hovered on the Terminus between day and night. These storms advanced at exactly the same rate as the planet's rotation leading to permanent cyclone wherever the light of dawn or dusk fell. Toran had heard Imperial adepts trying to explain the phenomenon with meteorological science but no native Lujanite would have truck with such profane arts. In their hearts every citizen knew that the Emperor's Storm was sent by Him on Terra, to test the purity of mankind and winnow away corruption. So important was this to the cultural identity of Lujanites that the Chapter had taken the Storm for their namesake and strove to Herald its virtue throughout the galaxy.

In fact it was the Chapter's most sacred rite to stand on the battlements of their Fortress Monastery, unarmoured and let the tempest test their purity. Any brother who stumbled in the heart of the typhoon was seen to have let impurity into their soul and would be dragged away to the Chaplains and Librarians for shriving and self-flagellation, until the Masters were satisfied that the weakness had been purged. It was also a common occurrence for aspirants and Scout-Novices to be torn from their perches and smashed into the unforgiving walls, cutting short their lives. Regrettable perhaps, but necessary, any youth who exposed such feebleness was by default unfit to join the order of the Space Marines. Weakness in the ranks could not be tolerated.

While Toran was reflecting upon history Novak was looking over to where Halis Paur was climbing. He saw their newest Brother climb a loose rock scree and said, "I wonder how our dour brother will fare in the ritual? I wager he will miss a step and stumble in its unleashed power."

"Now you do overstep yourself," said Toran sternly, "Halis is a veteran of the Chapter and you will give honour to his service."

"I hear and obey Sergeant, I shall be the soul of discretion," quipped Novak cheekily then he bounded forwards, leaping from rock to rock with the eagerness of youth.

Toran sighed, for Novak's irrepressible tongue was seemingly never going to relent. As valued as his skill with a blade was his irreverent wit was a liability, one that no Battle Captain would suffer, Novak was unlikely to ever leave the Reserve Companies. The Sergeant found himself walking alongside Bylan, who had been following silently all the while. Toran wondered as to the boys' future, he understood the role of his Battle Brothers and he could grasp the place of the Serfs in the logistics of the Chapter, but this strange child did not quite fit into either. Toran observed how the boy clambered over rocks and slopes with a strength no mortal man could boast but still heard his breathing labour in the high altitude and his chest heaved with a weakness never seen in any true Astartes.

Swiftly they climbed up a near vertical slope and once at the top Bylan had to put his hands on his knees and bend over, to suck in great gasps of air, while Toran effortlessly crested the ridge. The Sergeant offered his hand to help the child but Bylan shook his head and said, "Please Master, you do not need to do that, I am not worthy."

Toran was taken aback, no Astartes would take so little pride in himself, he said, "What happened to you to make you say such things?"

Bylan sighed and with the hollow voice of one who has explained this countless times said, "I was once a Scout-Novice, blooded and marked for ascension, yet when the Apothecaries implanted my Multi-lung there were complications. The organ itself functioned perfectly but my immune system did not, it tried to reject the implant and attacked it at cellular level."

"Surely the gene-crafting was proof against such an attack?" asked Toran in surprise.

Bylan drew in a breath and said, "The honoured Apothecaries assured me of the same thing but my mortal lungs were not so stalwart, the immune response scarred my respiratory tract and crippled me. By the time they realised what was happening and corrected the aberration it was too late, the damage was done and my chances for ascension were gone."

Toran considered this and frankly asked, "Did no one discuss Augmetic replacements with you?"

Bylan hastily looked away, but too late to conceal a look of abject despair and a hitch in his voice as he lamented, "Who would waste fine Augmetics on a failed novice?"

Toran was disturbed by the hopelessness he saw on the serf's face, not really understanding how anyone could be so apathetic. Many held that the Astartes had their emotions cut out of them, which could not be farther from the truth. It was more accurate to say their responses to emotion were shaped and resculpted. Everything about Toran's psyche had been carefully constructed to make him a fiercer warrior: rage, despair and fear were all but fuel for his zeal and he could not grasp how anyone could just accept their doom without fighting fiercely against it.

Eventually he settled on saying, "That must have been hard to hear."

"I still have purpose," asserted Bylan defensively reciting the Serf's creed, "I serve the Masters in all things and in doing so strengthen them for the fight."

Before Toran could respond he was interrupted by a sudden shout of discovery from Halis followed by a cloud of black winged birds, that scattered high as the Space Marine disturbed them. Toran turned and left the serf behind as he moved forward. He saw Halis standing on a rocky ridgeline waving him over and bounded up the ridge to find himself looking down into a sharp gully. No, not a gully: a slaughterhouse.

Everywhere Toran looked a nightmarish scene played out before him, grey-clad bodies strewn about, rotting in the hot afternoon sun. Toran's expert eye analysed the scene and instantly reconstructed the events; this was the work of a single being, pouncing upon a dozen strong men and overpowering them effortlessly. Many had tried to crawl away after the fact but every corpse showed signs of broken leg bones and shattered ankles, preventing them from fleeing. The following deaths had been slow and painful, the killer taking time over every individual and making sure each death was exquisitely painful and prolonged. Fear and pain were on every face and the grizzly scene was made worse where carrion birds had been pecking at the dead flesh.

Men had been systematically taken apart, their entrails laid out before them. Limbs had been neatly excised and head laid out in neat rows, all to create a macabre work of art out of the most horrific materials possible. One serf had been nailed to a boulder, iron spikes driven through his shoulder blades into solid rock, leaving him hanging like a tapestry. His eyelids had been delicately removed so he could not avert his gaze from the horrors played out before him and he had been left till last so that he didn't miss a single atrocity.

Whoever had performed this barbarism had been deliberate and precise, clearly wanting to extract every last drop of pain and torment from the serfs. This had been no act of war, this was sport. The horror replayed in Toran's mind and one thing was abundantly clear, whoever the killer was he wanted to fill his victims with Fear.

Bylan crested the ridge and took one look, then bent over behind a rock and began throwing up the contents of his stomach. Toran ignored the shameful display of weakness as he drew his weapons and scanned the perimeter. He took up a defensive stance and opened up a Vox channel declaring, "IXth Squad this is Sergeant Toran, I am declaring an emergency. Take up arms brothers and steel your souls for battle."

Then he proclaimed, "There is still one Night Lord left alive out here."


	3. Chapter 3

Tenebris Resurget: Chapter3

Back down the steep sides of the mountain the Space Marines raced in a wide spread formation, weapons raised as they pursued the trail of the killer. They moved fast but did not rush, for the terrain was rugged and broken, with rising hillocks, sharp clefts and piles of looming boulders: perfect ground for an ambush. So they moved swiftly but surely, ever watchful for a trap, as they hunted down their quarry. Behind them raced a smaller figure in grey robes, trying to keep up even while desperately labouring to breathe.

As they advanced Toran was talking on to the rest of his squad via the Vox, "Report status!"

Brother Persion, the squad's communication specialist replied, "We are sweeping up the mountain, as long as you keep driving him down towards us there is no way he can slip past us."

Halis' voice cut into the link saying, "You have no idea what Warp Tainted abilities this scum boasts; nothing is certain where the infernal powers are concerned."

"We will face that possibility when the time comes," said Toran knowing they had no alternatives, "What of our reinforcements?"

Persion replied "Captain Jossat is requesting confirmation. The Traitors have been declared exterminated and it was confirmed that the Dusk Princes' forces are all dead, as is Vorshaan himself."

Toran gritted his teeth as he advanced and voxed back, "Then tell him someone made a mistake, those kills were fresh, one Heretic must have slipped the net."

There was a long pause on the Vox, then Persion's voice came back saying, "Captain Jossat agrees, however the Light of Terra is currently in orbit on the far side of the planet. They are changing vectors but orbital dynamics do not alter on a whim, redeploying the reserve Companies will take at least five hours and Librarian Wela is currently indisposed."

"Five hours is unacceptable," snapped Toran, "This Heretic could well evade the net and escape, we need more Marines to run him down."

After a moment Persion replied, "Fourth Company are on the far side of the continent, but Seventh Company reports they have a squad in the region. A Thunderhawk is on the way as we speak and will arrive within the hour; there are no other assets close enough to intervene."

"What of the Serfs?" asked Toran,

Persion replied, "Hevostan is organising a retreat, Revered Dreadnought Hibernia had already departed but Captain Jossat has ordered more Transports diverted to collect the rest."

"Damnation, we could have used a Dreadnought," Toran snarled, "Keep me informed."

As he had been talking the Marines had kept moving, pushing their prey further down the mountainside. As they hunted they climbed ridges and swept around outcroppings of rocks, ever watchful for traps. They were making good progress but Toran was painfully aware how few they were. The mountain was vast and they were but one squad, the chances of this Traitor slipping past them were unacceptably high. Yet they had no other options, until their reinforcements arrived they were the only Marines available.

Behind them Bylan was wheezing badly in his attempt to keep up, but he crept closer and breathlessly asked, "Master… should I return… to the other serfs?"

"Absolutely not," stated Toran with his bolt pistol held out before him, "There is a Chaos Marine at large, you would never make it back alive. The safest place for you is by my side."

Bylan nodded then asked, "Master, what sort of Traitor do we face?"

Toran's eyes never stopped sweeping for the foe yet he answered automatically, "Roboute Guilliman wrote that information is victory, analyse the Theoretical and present a Practical."

Bylan thought about it for a second then said, "The only evidence we have is the scene from the massacre, so we know this foe is sadistic and bloodthirsty. He enjoys killing and takes his time, that suggests a Night Lord as opposed to a Berserker and the corpses were not defiled after death, so not a Noise Marine either."

Toran was surprised how well informed Bylan was but then remembered he had been in the Scout-Novices so must have received basic hypno-indoctrination. Without looking aside from his hunt he asked, "And your Practical?"

Bylan looked down at the broken ground replied, "The trail is clear and direct, making no effort to mask his route. This suggests he is either overconfident or not expecting pursuit, we may catch him unaware. I would increase our speed."

Toran was disappointed by the serf's obvious answer and growled, "You have identified the evidence, but your Theoretical is flawed and so too the Practical. You have missed one key fact: the massacre was unnecessary. The forces of the Dusk Prince are cunning and sly; they never attack unless they hold all the advantages. If escape was this Traitors' agenda he could have slipped away and we would have been none the wiser. He chose to massacre those serfs and leave the bodies where they would be found and this trail is far too easy to follow, no Astartes would be so careless. Theoretical: he wants to be found and we are walking into a trap. Practical: keep tight formation and rendezvous with reinforcements."

"But why?" asked Bylan struggling to understand.

"That is unclear," said Toran sweeping a cleft in mountainside with his bolt pistol, "But take care, to try to understand the ways of Chaos is to invite corruption. Remember the teachings of the Chaplains: Blessed is the Mind too small for doubt."

They moved out of the highlands onto the smoother slopes, Toran calculated they were closing on the rest of IXth squad and yet there had been no sign of the Traitor. He cursed as he thought that despite their precautions the Chaos Marine must have slipped by them. He was about to vox Persion for an update when he suddenly spotted movement ahead and a yell rang out. It was Brother Rickard, moving up from the battlefield and shouting, "Contact, I have contact with the enemy!"

Instantly the squad changed direction, Toran was the closest with Novak and Halis mere moments behind. The Sergeant ran for all he was worth and saw he was approaching a sheer drop off a cliff edge along which Rickard and the Chaos Marine were fighting. From a distance Toran could see that the Traitor was clad in midnight blue plate, etched with jagged lightning. His helm was fanged, with small unobtrusive wings on the sides and he had a large leathery cloak swept behind him that swirled and billowed as he fought.

The Traitor wielded a large polearm as long as a grown man, with a serrated knife on one end and a roaring chainblade on the other, the infamous weapon of the Night Lords: a Chain glaive. The traitor's movements were oddly graceful, flowing from parry to attack without hesitation. His pole arm was never still, lunging and withdrawing in hypnotic swirls then he would spin it in both hands with dazzling flourishes. There was something poetic in his style, a beauty that was truly wrong coming from one so foul. His every gesture was informed by ten thousand years of combat and he always managed to find just the right spot to avoid incoming blows, to turn every parry into a counter attack.

Rickard's movements by comparison were dull and slow. They could have been taken straight out of the Codex Astartes, following prescribed sets of blocks, parries and counter-attacks. Every lunge he made was countered, every parry bypassed, to leave deep scores in his armour. His style was unimaginative, formulaic and predictable and Toran recognised that Rickard was badly outclassed. He pushed himself harder desperately trying to come to his brothers' aid but he was too slow.

Before the Sergeant could intervene the Traitor spun his chainglaive in both hands, sweeping the end down and to the left to trip Rickard. The Storm Herald followed Codex prescriptions and did not move to parry the obvious feint. He raised his blade expecting a new attack from above but realised too late he had made a fatal mistake. The Chaos Marine did not strike with his chain blade but instead grabbed his polearm laterally and shoved it forwards, under Rickard's guard. The adamantium shaft caught the Marine across the abdomen and hurled him backwards, his feet swiftly repositioned to compensate but in doing he so ruined his stance.

Rickard's guard fell and for an instant he was dangerously exposed. Then with elegant grace the Chaos Marine reversed direction, swinging his polearm around to the right and the roaring chain blade came across at neck height to catch Rickard in the gorget. The blade was perfectly angled to land between the curve of the helm and the rising neck ring. Fibrebundle musculature undersheaths offered absolutely no resistance to the roaring weapon and the Chainglaive parted flesh and bone effortlessly. In one lightning swift move the Heretic swept his polearm around and spun on his heel to face the oncoming Sergeant while Rickard's headless corpse fell to the stony ground with a dull clang.

Denial and outrage erupted in Toran's hearts and screamed his fury at his brothers' murderer as he ran. Without conscious thought his arm raised his bolt pistol and he yanked the trigger hard. Toran fired on full auto, hammering bolts at the Traitor which chipped and dented the midnight plate, clipping grizzly skulls from his belt but failing to penetrate the ancient armour. The Heretic buckled under the fusillade, taking one step back and another towards the cliff edge, but then he straightened and in a hissing sibilant voice filled with smug pleasure called, "Too little, too late".

Then he put two fingers to his helm in a mocking salute before stepping backwards and without even looking jumped off the cliff. Toran roared in fury as he rushed to the edge and saw the Chaos Marine falling hundreds of feet in freefall. But before he hit the ground his leathery cloak spread out from his back, arching wide on bony ridges. Toran was shocked to see this was not some ornate affection but in fact large mutated wings growing from the degenerate's back. The frail wings should not have been able to support the weight of an armoured Chaos Marine but they shimmered eerily with Warp Light and he floated down as light as a feather.

Toran was left standing futilely over his brothers' corpse; the oozing blood from Rickard's body spreading out over the ground. Rage and disgust built in Toran's twin hearts yet all he heard was the Traitor's echoing laughter as he bounded away to the east, escaping vengeance. Toran's soul was aflame but his genhanced mind was conditioned to transcend emotional paralysis, he was incapable of being frozen by horror. In his mind he was already breaking down the threat, replayed the last few seconds with perfect clarity and recreating the fight in exacting detail. He analysed the Traitor's movements and style in a heartbeat and realised this one was a master of combat; Rickard had not even been in the same league as his killer.

Then something snagged at Toran's mind, the pattern of lightning bolts on the Traitors' armour was familiar. The Chaos emblems and the placement of kill trophies, even the Chainglaive was known to the Sergeant from his briefings. With a flash of terrible understanding the Sergeant realised he knew who this Traitor was. The shock of a moment ago was a passing cloud compared to the storm of alarm that swept through him as Toran whispered, "The Dusk Prince… Vorshaan lives!"


	4. Chapter 4

Tenebris Resurget Chapter 4

Far, far away from the mountain lay the temple-cities of the plains. Each one a sprawling conurbation of slums and shanty-towns built around the soaring majesty of the Cathedrals and shrines. No matter where one lived in the cites one could not avoid the looming sight of the spiritual towers, scores of them reaching up to a mile into the sky as they competed to outdo each other in their devotions. Their shadows cast whole sections of the cities into eclipse, making the sun a rare sight indeed, visible only for a few minutes at dawn and dusk.

Inside the Cathedrals the Cardinals, clerics, preachers Deacons and prelates lived in obscene luxury, growing fat and indolent off the tithes of passing pilgrim ships that brought millions of worshippers to their sermons. They drank and feasted and whored as they willed, all the while congratulating themselves on their piety and virtue. They were sure that God-Emperor looked upon them with favour and so nothing they did could ever be considered wrong.

Life for the rest of the planet was a different matter, a hard-scrabble life of poverty and starvation. The average citizen lived at the pleasure of their ordained masters, the only employment being to maintain the cathedrals and service their occupants. So the impoverished masses bowed and scraped before the haughty priests, their greatest hope that a son may prove strong enough to earn a place in the lowest orders of the Ecclessiarchy or that a daughter may be beautiful enough to attract the eye of a lecherous cardinal. Every so often a citizen would get it into their heads to seek a better life beyond the city walls but they would not last long. The endless dusty plains were bereft of food or shelter, and the only water sources were already monopolised by the temple-cities.

Thus had life on Sacellum endured for millennia, undisturbed until today. Among the shanty towns moved Transhuman warriors of the Storm Heralds, sweeping the districts meticulously and dragging their occupants out of their homes. They were marched at gunpoint to large squares, where they were forced to kneel before the Storm Heralds. There the Space Marines would read aloud from ancient texts, preaching their own version of the Imperial creed in complete defiance of the priesthood glaring down at them from their lofty balconies.

Around the edges women in power armour glared at the Space Marines with outraged scorn but they were powerless to intervene. The invasion of the Chaos Lord had ravaged their ranks and left them bloodied and broken. Only the coming of the Space Marines had turned the tide and they had the power and the arms to do as they will. So the proselytising continued.

Walking the perimeter of one of the gatherings were a pair of Space Marines in the heraldry of Seventh Company. One of them was a sergeant, with a transverse crest on his helm and a shining augmetic leg. He bore a fine combi bolter-plasma gun in his hands and his name was Sergeant Mylos. Mylos was a proud and zealous adherent to the Storm Herald's creed, though his attitude was marred by a scornful and sour disposition.

As a Chaplain led the sermons Mylos walked in circles around the packed crowds of mortals, watching the Sisters of Battle for any signs they intended to intervene. His keen eye picked out their armour's marks of allegiance, Order of the Valorous Heart he thought, and noted weak points in their gear. The all-female enforcers of the Ecclessiarchy's will were well armed and equipped but he was certain he could best them in battle. His skill with a bolter had earned him a marksman crest, and he could put a bolt round through an eye-lens at fifty paces.

Beside him his comrade sighed, "How much longer?"

Mylos glanced over, that was Wenver a solid and dependable Marine given the dubious honour of bearing a plasma gun. He tended to speak his mind but that suited Mylos, he had little use for airs and graces. Mylos sniffed under his helm and replied, "It will take as long as it takes."

Wenver glanced to the crowd and said, "Why do we bother? You know the priesthood will sweep in as soon as we are gone and drill their own teachings into the mortal's heads."

Mylos replied dismissively, "Tradition."

It was true, the Storm Heralds had a long standing practice of preaching to the worlds they saved. They taught faith in the Divine Emperor to the masses, a creed of action and deeds, not the humiliating servility espoused by the Ecclessiarchy. They backed this up with excruciations of the unrepentant, destruction of texts that did not support their creed and the burning of community leaders who resisted them. Mylos wasn't sure when this practice had started but tradition was tradition, though he knew not all the Storm Heralds agreed with that assessment.

Wenver shook his head and said, "Sometimes I wonder why we do this, what do we hope to accomplish?"

Mylos glanced at his comrade and said, "Are you questioning the command of High Chaplain Samect?"

Wenver replied candidly, "I'm just saying there's a time and a place and this is not it. Look at those Sisters of Battle; they won't forget this in a hurry. This is asking for trouble."

Mylos didn't reply to that, it was an uncomfortable truth. The habit of proselyting ran counter to most Astartes' Chapters doctrines and the wider Imperium had taken note of it. The Storm Heralds faced accusations of Heresy from all quarters, the high and mighty Imperial Adepts did not like the idea of Astartes acting as anything other than attack dogs. Many Brothers had begun to wonder if a wider conflict was brewing. Yet that was above Mylos' place, he was a Sergeant, content to lead a squad in battle and nothing else.

Suddenly Mylos was distracted by a blinking light in his helm, a high-level request for a vox link. Mylos blink-clicked his vox open and said, "Sergeant Mylos reporting."

He was surprised when an ident rune came up for Fourth Captain Jossat and he said, "Sergeant, good, I have a mission for you."

Captain Jossat was in command of this expedition, his battle company forming the bulk of their forces, with supporting elements from the Reserves of Seventh and Ninth Companies. He was an ardent Emperor-Worshipper, taking his praises beyond the customary reverence of most Astartes. Mylos thought him a pious zealot but he admired Jossat for his swift and aggressive style of warfare and his refusal to let little things like casualty estimates slow him down. Mylos replied swiftly, "Of course Brother-Captain, how may we aid you?"

Jossat's voice came back, "A squad from Ninth Company has run into trouble. It seems a Night Lord slipped our cull and is romping over the mountainsides."

Mylos' wrath stirred at the thought of a Traitor escaping their net and he hissed, "A Traitor lives? We shall not let that stand!"

"Good," Jossat stated, "I am diverting a Thunderhawk transporter to collect you, move to the mountains and assume command from Sergeant Toran."

"Toran," Mylos hissed in loathing at the name.

Jossat's voice paused and he said, "You know him?"

"Unfortunately," Mylos admitted, "I knew him as a rookie, he is sloppy and reckless. Prone to innovation and invention, he thinks he is too clever by half. How he made Sergeant rank is a mystery."

Jossat replied, "I am glad to hear you say that, Ninth Company is a ramshackle disgrace to our order. Captain Phalros had let standards slip and fallen short of our creed. He's an outspoken opponent of Emperor-Worship, he prefers to play politics rather than fight wars."

Mylos snorted, "A political appointment, that explains Toran. Sounds like Phalros has let favouritism cloud his thinking."

"You understand then," Jossat said ignoring the unsubtle criticism of a Captain by a mere Sergeant, "I want you to get out there and set things straight. It is important that you put Toran in his place and show the Chapter how things should be done."

"Order received," Mylos stated.

Jossat concluded by saying, "You'll receive Toran's report en-route, study his conclusions and devise a strategy. I want that Night Lord dead but make sure you assert your authority from the outset. I want Toran knocked off his pedestal, humble him and make it plain the Masters of the Chapter are not impressed with his aberrant ways."

"Brother-Captain, it will be a genuine pleasure," Mylos concurred then the vox-link died.

Wenver had been silent throughout but now he inquired, "Something going on?"

Mylos drew in a breath and said, "Gather the squad, we are redeploying immediately. Ninth Company has stirred up a mess and we need to go sort it out for them."


	5. Chapter 5

Tenebris Resurget Chapter 5

Over the rocky barren slopes a large shadow danced over gullies and boulders. It was cruciform in shape and growing bigger as the object descended from the sky. As it closed bulky flanks and thick Ceramite armour became visible, all borne aloft by multiple engines. Its ugliness and brutality were a message to the universe from its makers: aesthetics were irrelevant, only its capabilities to wage war held any meaning. It was a Thunderhawk, but not a gunship, this was Transporter and it fell towards the ground like a lumbering grox.

From the ground IXth squad could see its approach as it angled towards them. They waited in a line of blue, broken only by a single flash of white. Apothecary Memnos standing amongst them, his narthecium filled with the gene-seed of the lost. The squad waited in parade formation to welcome their reinforcements with all honour, the only blemish being that Halis was fidgeting with his combat blade, drawing it an inch and sheathing it over and over.

Toran scowled as he said, "Halis you dishonour us, stand to attention."

Halis muttered, "Honour be damned, when I get that conniving scum in my sights I want to gut him with my own two hands," but he at least settled into position.

As the transport approached Sergeant Toran assessed the craft and saw that its large cargo claws were empty and that it was being piloted by two serfs. A singular honour to grant to mortals, even if it was just for routine duties. Of course the Chapter would never allow them to fly in combat operations; there were standards to maintain after all. The Thunderhawk slowed and engaged vectored thrust to come into a hover whilst the side doors opened. Without even waiting for it to land seven figures in Mark VII plate jumped out and fell twenty feet to the ground. Their landing sent up clouds of dust and pebbles and they assumed parade formation as the Thunderhawk rose in a blast of downdraft.

It hung for a moment then spun delicately on the spot, the serf pilots expertly manipulating the controls. With a roar of jet wash the Thunderhawk took off into the sky, headed west towards the battlefield and the serf parties awaiting evacuation. Toran looked over his reinforcements and saw they were bearing the heraldry of Seventh Company and hefting their bolters high. At their head stood a Sergeant with a Transverse crest, the laurel of Marksmanship and also with one augmetic leg. Toran felt his hearts sink at the sight: Mylos, of all the people to jump out of that gunship it just had to be Mylos.

The newly arrived Sergeant straightened and walked forwards, his loathing plain to see in his body language. He marched straight up to Toran and ignoring established protocol spat, "We have been sent to clear up this mess you have made."

Toran bristled at the condescending tone in Mylos' voice but refused to be drawn in by his spite so he replied coldly, "The Chaos Lord has deceived us, Vorshaan is still at large."

"Ah yes," replied Mylos with a sneer, "I was informed of your guesswork, I find it hard to believe such an outlandish tale."

Toran tried to keep his tone civil as he stated, "I saw him with my own eyes."

Mylos snorted dismissively and said, "You saw a Traitor Marine, that at least I am prepared to concede, but Vorshaan himself that is doubtful. Captain Jossat slew the pirate and took his head; you impugn the honour of Fourth Company with this fantasy."

Toran could no longer keep his irritation hidden as he snapped, "It is no fantasy, Vorshaan deceived us with foul Warp magic and has already killed one of my squad."

That finally shut Mylos up, even he could not speak ill of the honoured dead and Toran stepped closer to him to say, "We must coordinate our search and run Vorshaan to ground, before he escapes again."

Mylos drew himself up straight and said, "Do not think to give me orders, I have seniority here."

Then Mylos paused as something caught his eye and he asked, "Why is that serf present?"

Toran glanced back at Bylan, who was trying to go unnoticed, and replied, "He was with us when we discovered the Dusk Prince's presence, it was too late to return him to the others."

Mylos lost interest in the serf and snorted, "Try not to get this one killed."

Then he turned and addressed both squads to declare, "Form up in codex pattern Delta seven, my squad will take point, we will spread out across a wide front and head east. IXth squad will follow, when one of us makes contact everybody will converge. We will surround this Traitor, whoever he is, from all directions and crush him."

Toran was surprised by this and said, "The Thunderhawk will not stay? Surely it would best be employed searching from the air."

Mylos didn't bother to turn round as he said, "Captain Jossat has ordered the gunship to evacuate the serfs from the battlefield. If you need someone to sit on your shoulder rest easy, the Battlebarge Light of Terra will be orbiting overhead in four hours. Besides, we now have sixteen Astartes; no lone Traitor can defeat that."

He gestured to one of his squad mates who carried a Plasma gun and said, "This is Brother Wenver, my second, you may liaise with him."

Toran bristled at the level of insult implied, to speak through a liaison like he was some lowly menial or Imperial Guard officer.

A large Marine stepped forwards, his armour decorated with a respectable tally of kill honours, and said in a much friendlier tone, "Greetings Brothers, together we will flush this Traitor out and run him to ground."

Toran found himself instantly warming to Wenver's open manner but it was Halis who spoke first, "Do you really think you can take him?"

Wenver hefted his plasma gun saying, "Worry not, if you can give me one clean shot I will kill this Heretic for you."

Toran was relieved to see someone in the squad understood the concept of cooperation. Mylos' attitude towards him was beyond snide and Toran could not understand how the fellow Sergeant could be so unprofessional. As if to reinforce the point Mylos moved out without another word and IXth squad followed. Swiftly the two squads spread out to cover as wide an area as possible, sweeping the broken landscape for every nook and cranny where the Night Lord could hide. With the hot sun on glinting off their armoured plates the squads drifted across the landscape, their towering silhouettes stark against the barren grey terrain.

As they walked Toran found himself walking near to Halis and he was not surprised when a request for a private vox link flashed in his visor. He opened the link to hear Halis saying, "So... Mylos hasn't changed much."

Toran swept behind a boulder with his bolt pistol as he said, "You knew him in Seventh Company?"

"Aye," replied Halis, "He was always a sour one but not usually such a miserable Frak."

"He wasn't always" replied Toran sadly.

"Really?" asked Halis, "What happened?"

Toran cut him off saying "That is a long story for another time."

Halis kept his bolter level as he swept the landscape but said, "Have you got somewhere better to be?"

Toran sighed, "It was a long time ago, when I was but a rookie. Our first mission went badly, losses were suffered. Mylos blamed me, he has never forgiven me for what happened."

Halis sounded doubtful as he asked, "Are you sure that's what it is?"

Toran frowned as he advanced to another boulder and said, "What else could it be?"

Halis followed as he explained, "Mylos was always sour but he was never so… unprofessional. To insult a fellow Sergeant to his face is grounds for censure, had a Chaplain witnessed such a welcome he would be subjected to flagellation. He's not stupid enough to act so without thought, this was a deliberate insult."

Toran was baffled by the statement and said, "Why would he do so?"

"If I may speak freely," Halis ventured, "He has been waiting for promotion to Sergeant for some time, whereas you are young for the role. He may wish to assert his dominance from the outset and establish a clear pecking order, to make sure you understand he is in charge."

Toran scowled as he said, "That is superfluous, Mylos has both seniority and superior laurels of victory. The Codex Astartes clearly states when two squad leaders of equal rank meet authority rests with the more veteran warrior. No Astartes would ever question that."

"Are you really that naive?" Halis snorted, "I heard you were a smart one but I can't believe you think it would be that clear cut."

Toran scowled in vexation as he spat, "Now you overstep yourself. Making personal remarks to a Sergeant is grounds for penance; if you persist then it shall be you who earns censure."`

Halis at last fell silent and followed in his wake as together the squads swept the landscape, marching in the hot afternoon sun. The chalky ground reflected the light, making the world turn a dazzling white but the Space Marines were not made for such poetry and remained focused entirely upon their hunt. They sectioned and cleared the slopes area by area, checking every possible hiding place.

As they searched Toran could feel a tension building in his gut, an electric tingle at knowing battle could erupt in heartbeat. In a mortal the sensation could possibly be called, fear but the Space Marines were beyond such weaknesses. To them fear was nothing more than the thrill of anticipation, keeping them alert and sharpening their reflexes for the fight ahead. Toran was methodical in his search but inwardly he cursed the time it was taking, the squads were progressing too slowly while Vorshaan's wings could carry him leagues in the time it took them to cover a mile. Yet he reassured himself that Vorshaan had chosen to engage the Storm Heralds in battle, it did not seem likely he would just slink away with his tail between his legs. The Night Lords fed on suffering and fear and the squads deliberately presented a tempting target to draw him in, surely the Dusk Prince would not be able to resist the bait.

So why did Toran feel his misgivings growing, why did he feel that more was going on than he could see? He had no answers to his questions and he could only trust that the Emperor would reveal the truth in His own ineffable manner. So he pressed on, eager for the battle to come.


	6. Chapter 6

Tenebris Resurget Chapter 6

Over the barren hills the Storm Heralds advanced, their weapons held tight as they hunted for their elusive quarry. They had spread out in a long line, covering as much ground as they could so to flush the Traitor from cover. It was a risky strategy but the only viable one they had, there was too much ground to search and not enough of them to do it.

Marching confidently Sergeant Mylos cast the image of a proud and unflappable warrior, certain that victory was to come. He kept his head high and his bolter ready at all times yet internally he was troubled. Running into Toran again had been more disconcerting than he had expected, the sight of him stirring old memories and grudges. Space Marines were conditioned for war, death in battle was the lot of each of them, yet the loss of his birth twin had hit Mylos hard. Pylos had been a joyous and eager soul, always yearning for the rush of combat and with an irreverent quip.

Mylos grieved for his loss but also mourned the life he had lost. The sun had disappeared from his life the day Pylos died, jokes stopped being funny and victory tasted like ashes in his mouth. No matter what glories and laurels he had won since that day nothing seemed truly brilliant anymore, everything was hollow and dull. Mylos would fight and die for his Chapter but he would do so joylessly, never again finding the beauty in life. Toran was the embodiment of that truth and Mylos loathed being near him.

Suddenly Mylos' vox crackled in his ear and his helm flashed a request for a private link from Brother Wenver. Mylos blink clicked the link open and said, "Sergeant Mylos here."

Wenver's voice came back, "Sergeant, do you see the Traitor?"

Mylos scanned the environment then said, "I don't see anything."

"Me neither," Wenver replied, "Which is worrying, there should be some sign."

Mylos stated, "We must assume the Night Lord covered his tracks, he will be a cunning foe."

Wenver paused for a moment then said, "Do you think it's really Vorshaan?"

"I don't know," Mylos sighed.

Wenver sounded curious as he said, "You didn't sound so uncertain when you spoke to Sergeant Toran."

Mylos suppressed the urge to snap and replied, "That was to knock the stuffing out of him."

Wenver hesitated for a long moment then said, "Is now really the time to be measuring the size of your combat knives?"

Mylos replied firmly, "Now is the only time. Toran has weaselled his way into a command but he needs to be reminded he is not special. That arrogant blowhard thinks he is the next First Captain Athead, a notion that needs to be beaten out of him."

Wenver snorted, "Captain Athead? Bearer of the Sword of Thiel? He doesn't stand for any nonsense, woe betide the Brother who thinks he is better than the First Captain."

Mylos grinned to himself, "I confess I would like to see those two put in a room together. Athead would put Toran in his place."

Wenver probed, "Sergeant you sound aggrieved… you're sure this isn't more personal?"

Mylos didn't like that and snapped, "Brother your keen aim is welcome but such comments are not. Keep your observations to yourself."

Wenver fell silent at that, leaving Mylos to fume. He knew Wenver had touched a nerve but could see no other way to proceed. The two Sergeants couldn't be arguing over authority in the field, Mylos had to establish his dominance. Toran would just have to learn to live with it. Minutes crawled by as Mylos wrestled with his doubts but then there was a sudden cry on the vox from Wenver, "Argh!"

Mylos reacted instantly, diverting towards Wenver's direction and calling over an open vox, "Contact! All Brothers converge on Wenver's position. Wenver report!"

Wenver replied tersely, "The ground gave way beneath me, some form of pit. It's not too bad, I can… wait…"

"Report!" Mylos shouted as he sprinted as fast as he could, "Report damn it!"

Wenver replied, "There's something here, I can almost see... Contact! He's here, Vorshaan's…. arrrrrrgh!"

"Hold on!" Mylos roared as he bounded over the land, closing to Wenver's position in seconds. He moved at speeds no mortal could match, converging on his Brother faster than an Imperial guard sentinel. Against any other foe Mylos would have been confident that a Space Marine could hold long enough for him to arrive but the cry on the vox had sounded dire.

Just before he reached the position there was a blur as a dark figure leapt into the sky, a Transhuman giant with wings that shimmered with Warp Light. It leapt into the heavens like a rocket and soared away, retreating at top speed. Mylos' bolter was already raised and he let loose a volley, trying to bring it down with mass-reactive shells but the Traitor jinked at the last moment, evading every shot as a thin laugh echoed back to him.

Mylos would have run in pursuit but then the ground dropped away before him, revealing Wenver's body. The Storm Herald was missing his head, it was completely absent, presumably having been stolen by the Traitor as a trophy. Wenver's plasma gun was a sparking mess on the ground, its casing cracked and its fuel chamber leaking. A detached part of Mylos' mind noted that the Traitor had gone straight for the most dangerous weapon, eliminating the plasma gun from the Storm Herald's arsenal. Yet the greater part of Mylos mind was filled with rage.

The sound of many boots echoed forth as Mylos saw the others converging but he only had eyes for the sight of Toran closing, chainsword in hand. The other Sergeant called out, "What happened?!"

Mylos saw red and spat at him, "Wenver is dead! You were supposed to provide backup, where was your squad?"

Toran sounded startled as he uttered, "Patrolling, as ordered."

Mylos stood over the broken body of his squad mate glaring at Toran and hissed, "Excuses, pathetic excuses. Wenver is dead and this is your fault."


	7. Chapter 7

Tenebris Resurget Chapter 7

On the barren slopes the assembled squads stood around the body of their fallen brother watching their Sergeants while Apothecary Memnos collected the gene-seed.

"This is your fault" Mylos growled.

Toran saw his comrades' anger and tried to console him, "We honour Wenver's sacrifice and shall avenge him."

"Speak not to me of honour" snarled Mylos, "That Traitor killed one of our own, just like my twin."

Toran recognised that Mylos' anger went far deeper than this loss; he was still reliving old battles. He tried to draw the conversation back to the present saying, "Vorshaan outmatches us one to one, spread out widely we are vulnerable, we need to form a tighter spread."

"Are you saying I made a mistake?" growled Mylos angrily, "I will not be second guessed by the likes of you."

"Or we could recall the Thunderhawk" said Toran trying to appear calm and rational, "Then we could track Vorshaan from the air."

Yet Mylos would not be deterred and growled "I should have known you would question orders, Captain Jossat has given his commands and we will obey."

Toran was insulted by the implication an Astartes would question a Captain's orders but bit down on his retort and instead said through gritted teeth, "I know my duty and I will see it prosecuted."

"You think me fooled but I know better" snarled Mylos, "You are a coward."

Gasps arose at the insult and hands strayed to weapons. Toran was outraged at being spoken to this way, for a Space Marine such words were beyond forbearance and could only end in bloodshed. Toran's patience ran out and he gripped his chainsword preparing to issue a challenge to duel but at the last moment Apothecary Memnos stepped between them and barked, "Cease this at once! Two Sergeants arguing in front of their squads is unforgivable. The Chaplains shall hear of this and you shall both pay penance upon our return to the Fortress-Monastery."

The words washed over him like a bucket of cold water and Toran was shamed, he bowed deeply in respect but Mylos only glared, not willing to let this go. Thankfully Halis stepped forwards and said, "We must recognise that the positioning of our squads made it impossible for us to intervene in time."

Mylos glanced at him and snapped, "The Codex Astartes lays out exacting search and destroy protocols."

Yet Halis countered, "Protocols Vorshaan also knows and used against us. We must adapt or die."

Mylos glared at them all resentfully and finally spat, "Very well, from now on we search in pairs; two together can hold the Traitor off long enough for the rest of us to intervene."

Toran could not help but think that he had made the same point, but coming from anyone else Mylos was willing to listen to the idea, still at least they weren't bickering anymore. Mylos addressed the assembled Marines saying "Organise into pairs, we will continue the search, the Light of Terra is only three hours away and I want to present them with this Traitor's head upon deployment."

Then he turned his back and set off, the rest of the squads forming into pairs and resuming the search. Novak however paused and knelt to scoop up Wenver's gladius to honour the fallen brother. In their new formation the pairs moved east, following Vorshaan's last direction. This time the squads kept closer together, narrowing the area of the search but it was Toran was growing suspicious that escape was not the enemy's goal and he would find them.

Toran paired up with Novak and they marched in lockstep, keeping each other in sight at all times, the serf Bylan trailing silently behind. Toran held his Chainsword and bolt pistol while Novak grasped a slim duelling rapier, the thin blade belaying its strength and lethal sharpness.

As they walked Novak said casually, "So you and Mylos…there is some history there."

Toran replied sadly, "I was there when his twin died and Mylos blames me, it was tragic circumstance but he could never accept that, he needed someone to hate."

"An unworthy sentiment" replied Novak, "Surely the Chaplains would not allow such a soul into our ranks."

Toran sighed and said, "The Astral Claws once thought the same, yet they allowed a soul like Lufgt Huron into their ranks. Mylos and his twin together were a force to be reckoned with, so dazzling were their skills that it blinded many to their flaws."

Novak muttered "His attitude is shameful, how did such a man make Sergeant?"

Toran replied, "His grudge is with me personally, when not facing a Brother he despises Mylos is a fine Sergeant."

Novak snorted, "There are many things that are wrong in our Chapter, the Emperor Worship is just the start. Sometimes I think we are our own worst enemy. Standards must be slipping to allow Mylos' grudge to fester."

"He is a Sergeant" cautioned Toran, "We will respect the rank if not the man, now focus on your duties."

As they had talked they had approached a large outcropping of weathered rocks, piled high like discarded bricks, replete with places to hide. Novak went right to circle around it, Toran and Bylan going left and soon they had moved far enough apart to lose sight of each other. Toran kept his sword and pistol ready as he searched, senses stretched to the maximum. He scoured the rock face but saw nothing untoward, he was about to declare it all clear when something happened. For the rest of his life Toran could not describe the next second. Some primal instinct screamed that he was in danger but even with an eidetic memory he could not articulate what triggered it. Perhaps it was a hint of a shadow moving, perhaps the wind changed ever so slightly or the way the hair on his neck bristled, but somehow he knew he was under attack. Instinctively Toran spun to bring his chainsword up high and it met a falling Chainglaive, mere inches from his helm.

The two blades whined against each other for a heartbeat then their incredible torque tore them apart sending their wielders staggering away. A blur of darkness and wings heralded Vorshaan surging out of nowhere, stabbing and slashing in a frenzy of frustrated rage. Toran had no time to think, reacting purely on instinct to weave his chainsword in lattice of blocks and parries that barely kept the Chainglaive from ripping his head from his shoulders.

Toran fell back step after step, desperately trying to deny Vorshaan the opening to end his life. In only a few heartbeats a score of blows had been turned aside yet Toran had not seen even a chance to counter attack, it was all he could do to stay alive. The duel was finely balanced but then from one side Bylan jumped forwards, determined to intervene. Vorshaan didn't even bother to look at the serf, simply swinging one fist around to catch him mid-air with a lazy backhand to the head. The blow sent him flying head over heels, it would have crushed the skull of a mortal man but genhanced as he was, it merely rendered the Bylan unconscious. The serf collapsed in an unconscious heap, leaving Toran alone with the Dusk Prince.

With a second to think Toran realised that he was outmatched by this foe, his blade work had never been in the first rank of the Chapter's Champions, whereas Vorshaan had been practicing for ten thousand years. Hurriedly Toran opened a vox channel and yelled "Contact! I have contact!" as he barely deflected a lunge from the roaring chainglaive.

"Calling for help whelp?!" Vorshaan cackled as his chainglaive swung about, bringing the serrated knife up. Toran saw it coming and chose to allow it to score across his hip armour, taking the risk so he could bring his bolt pistol up, already squeezing the trigger. It was a daring move but Vorshaan was faster, he heaved his weapon up to catch Toran's elbow with the haft, throwing off his aim and the salvo of bolts sailed harmlessly over their heads. Toran was stunned by the move but his Transhuman reflexes kept him fighting. A thrust from the chainglaive swept forward, aiming for his hearts and Toran barley got his chainsword in the way. The spinning teeth of the blades sent the weapons flying off each other again and the glaive only carved a deep gouge in his flank armour, rather than penetrating his chest.

"Oh come now" hissed Vorshaan, the leer oozing from his voice, "This is no sport, surely you can do better."

Toran felt his anger rising but he forced it down with iron will, anger would distract him at a crucial moment. He lifted his blade and braced himself for another attack but at that moment Novak appeared, running hard and leaping into the fray. Novak surged past Toran, moving twice as fast as the Sergeant had been, attacking in a flurry of dancing blows. In one hand Novak held his long duelling rapier, in the other Wenver's short gladius, using them together to create a complex web of stabs and slashes. He launched a blizzard of strikes, his assault focussed and pure, like a prodigy finding his passion or an artist in his element. It should not have been possible, these two blades required entirely different styles and tempers, yet Novak wielded them in concert like a master conductor. His rapier leapt from thrust to parry to strike without seeming to pass through the intervening space. Novak wielded the blades in unison, making each one far deadlier than were it paired with another of its kind. He would slash high with the rapier and at the same time cut low with the gladius, turn aside counterattacks with his long blade and simultaneously stab for the guts with the short blade.

Even Toran was amazed by Novak's skill; he was a dazzling whirlwind of flashing steel, his every move perfectly balanced and deadly as he forced Vorshaan to fall back. It was an incredible display of skill, yet Vorshaan matched him at every step, his polearm in constant movement, spinning and deflecting, elegantly turning defence into counterattack. There was something entrancing about their duel, perfect balance and poise between them, with neither able to find an opening. It was like seeing a dance that had been rehearsed to perfection or a performance given countless times until the artists no longer performed their role but embodied it.

Toran could barely follow the duel but he had to intervene regardless, he lunged forwards and brought his chainsword into the performance, feeling clumsy and brutish in comparison but he managed to add another angle to their assault. Now it was Vorshaan falling back defensively, blocking attacks from the combined pair of Space Marines. They drove him back step by step in a hurricane of blows, yet they still could not land a killing blow, Vorshaan swirling his polearm around to rob each blow of its power and the few attacks they landed did nothing more than score and chip his armour plates. With mounting frustration the pair pressed forwards, hacking and slashing but no matter where they placed their blows the polearm was somehow always just in the right place to deny a fatal strike.

Toran snarled in anger and thrust forwards, trying to break through with brutal force where skill had failed, but Vorshaan was ready for such a tactic. The Chaos Lord arched his wings and in one mighty beat propelled himself backwards a dozen feet. The Marines charged forwards, determined not to let him escape again but as they closed Vorshaan laughed and called to Novak, "You are good, adaptive and innovative, yet your style is not your weakness… No, you are too honourable to cheat,"

Then he brought his chainglaive up across his body catching both their blades as they fell. An unexpected click echoed forth and a short stiletto blade jumped out of his boot as he spun and kicked out to catch Novak in the back of the knee right, where his armour failed to cover him. The knife cut deeply, severing tendons and Novak's leg gave way as he let out a roar of not of anger but of outrage and Vorshaan sneered, "Better luck next time."

Suddenly the Chainglaive spun about around like a spear to face Toran and realised he was now the only thing in the Dusk Prince's way. Outmatched by a superior foe Toran found he had no choice save to raise his chainsword and prepare to sell his life as dearly as he could.


	8. Chapter 8

Tenebris Resurget Chapter 8

Toran faced the Dusk Prince with his blade held ready, watching for the slight hint of movement. He felt a cold shiver run down his spine, not at the thought that he was likely to die here but that the Traitor would escape. Suddenly Vorshaan leapt into action, his Chainglaive descending in a vicious cut, Toran moved to block but as he did so the polearm twisted and the haft caught him in the side, throwing him off balance. This was followed up by a lightning quick slash from the serrated knife that slipped past his guard to scythe at his head. Toran barely manage to raise his arm quickly enough so the blade merely gouged his pauldron but Vorshaan readjusted instantly swirling his chainglaive fast as quicksilver. Toran instinctively caught the haft with his chainsword and gunned the motor to fling the polearm away.

Vorshaan fell back a pace and swirled his chainglaive hand over hand as he sneered, "Clumsy oaf, didn't anyone show you how to wield a sword properly?" Toran's anger surged and he made to shout a rebuttal but suddenly Vorshaan was attacking again, twice as fast as before. For Toran it was like standing the path of a waterfall, sheer force coming from every direction and he was unable to defend every side at once. There was no time for analysis and thoughts of style or timing, Toran was falling back on pure instinct and muscle memory to survive. If he paused for a moment to think he would be dead and he weaved his chainsword desperately about, feeling clumsy and brutish in comparison to his opponent.

The blows came thick and fast, raining down upon him like hail and despite his most desperate defence his armour was quickly covered in scores and rents. As the duel swept backwards Toran saw Novak lying on the ground, trying to track the enemy with his bolt pistol but the melee was too quick and fluid for him to risk a shot. All Toran could do was parry and deny, knowing every second he delayed the enemy was another second for his squad brothers to arrive. Even if it cost him his life death would have meaning, if by dying he served the Emperor's purpose, Toran thought.

Unfortunately Toran should have been focusing on the fight as Vorshaan boot came up and drove into his midriff, knocking him away in a clumsy stagger. The Dusk Prince bunched to sweep low and Toran's arm began to move to parry but then he saw the slightest twitch in the Night Lord's wings. He realised the Heretic was feinting, to open him up for a strike to his hearts and he raised his Chainsword across his chest instead. The timing could not have been more perfect, for the two chain weapons met and locked together, making Toran's teeth rattle from the impact as their jagged teeth snarled together in an impossible knot.

"Damn you!" Vorshaan shouted as he yanked his weapon, but the teeth had jammed together. The motors whined and spat black exhaust as they fought against one, another while their wielders struggled merely to hold them. The torque was unbelievable, trying the tear the weapons away and only the superhuman strength of the Astartes could hold them. Toran desperately gripped his juddering weapon, knowing if he let go Vorshaan would gut him in a heartbeat. Despite all his training and conditioning he could not escape an inevitable truth: Vorshaan was better than he was. He realised in that moment that all the forms and styles taught to him could not equal his opponent's experience and by all the rules of duelling he would lose.

So the only way to win was to change the rules.

Disregarding all his training Toran lifted his thumb and slid it over the hilt to reverse the direction of his Chainsword. It was a desperate, foolhardy move that none of his instructors would have approved of and it took Vorshaan totally by surprise. Braced for force entirely from one direction the Dusk Prince was suddenly wrenched by the unexpected twist and flung away, his wings billowing out and filling with air to carry him a dozen feet before slamming into the ground. The force of the impact rolled him over and over, his wings tangling around his body hampering his movements until he lay prone on the ground.

Instantly Toran charged in pursuit, trying to hack down with his chainsword. Vorshaan barely got his polearm up in time to catch the blow inches from his helm and Toran roared in anger and slammed down hard on the adamantium haft, trying to wear the Chaos Lord down before he could recover. There was no form or style to his assault, only fury and rage driving his arms relentlessly as all thought of strategy was lost in the heat of the moment. Vorshaan met every strike with the haft of his weapon, arms lowering a millimetre with every blow until it was a hairsbreadth from his faceplate. The Dusk Prince tried to change tack, the stiletto blade shooting out of the Chaos Lord's boot and he swung it up towards Toran's groin. The Sergeant however was ready for such a trick and pulled back but in doing so he gave Vorshaan a moment of respite and the Dusk Prince twisted, his spine writhing inhumanly like a snake as he leapt to his feet.

Toran prepared for another assault but then a sound came ringing over the ground, many armoured boots pounding on rock and closing fast. Vorshaan pulled his chainglaive up before him and hissed, "You are getting better, perhaps next time you may provide some fleeting sport", then he bunched his wings and leapt into the sky. Toran roared in denial, grabbing his bolt pistol and raising it to fire on full auto at the retreating Traitor. The bolts were well aimed but Vorshaan's wings shimmered with Warp light propelling him faster than a jump pack. He evaded the hurtling bolts with a graceful roll and laughed scornfully as he spread his wings and sailed serenely off into the east.

"This isn't over!" Toran yelled after the fleeing Traitor but he was left fuming in impotence as his Brothers closed on his position. First on the scene was Mylos, stomping on his augmetic leg as he wrenched off his helm, "It seems I save your hide yet again" he growled.

Toran bit down a retort and forced himself to say through gritted teeth, "I thank you."

Mylos' face was hidden by his helm but his stance conveyed exactly what he thought of that, but he at least did not say what he was thinking. Instead he turned to the gathering Marines and ordered, "What are you standing around for? You all saw what direction the Traitor fled in, form up and get after him!"

With that the squads paired off again and raced east trying to catch Vorshaan before he got too far. Meanwhile Bylan was coming round, half his face filled with a massive bruise and Toran offered him a hand saying, "That was either an incredibly brave or foolish thing to do, surely you knew you could not hurt a Chaos Marine."

Bylan mumbled through a swollen face, "If he turned to kill me it would have distracted him for you Master."

Toran approved his spirit of self-sacrifice and patted the serf on the shoulder saying, "Well done lad."

Bylan's bruised face lit up at the gruff praise, he stood straighter, looking in awe at the Sergeant. Toran was glad his helm was on so the serf could not see how uncomfortable the hero worship was making him but thankfully Novak was getting to his feet, his Transhuman physiology knitting his tendons back together. The duellist stretched his leg and walked a few steps, growing more powerful and confident with each pace. Only another Space Marine would have noticed the slight limp to his gait but it would be enough to slow him down in combat.

With a nod the trio joined the squads in their chase, Toran pushing forwards with Bylan but Novak was slowed by his limp. Toran was unwilling to leave his injured Brother alone but they had to press on so they continued their hunt, until the sun dipped low casting their shadows out on the hillside before them. Toran was alert and ready for another attack but nothing came their way, Vorshaan had simply disappeared, it seemed even the lure of combat could no longer draw him out.

Eventually Toran sighed and said, "We have lost him."

"Could he have doubled back?" queried Novak.

"Why would he do that?" mused Toran in bafflement.

Novak spat testily, "Why has he done any of this?"

Toran replied sternly, "The ways of Chaos are foul and obscured but it is of little consequence. The Light of Terra is little more than an hour away, with orbital surveillance he cannot escape."

The Sergeant spied a narrow gully in the hillside and Toran waved to Novak to indicate he and Bylan were going to inspect it. Novak nodded and held his position, watching their rear as they descended into the dip. Toran gripping his chainsword in anticipation, sure that danger was close at hand.

Bylan however seemed distracted and said, "Master, I do not understand this Traitor."

Toran kept his guard up as he replied, "Caution boy, to seek to understand a Traitor is to risk sharing his Heresy."

Bylan nodded as if he had just heard the wisest of words yet still said, "Yes Master I do not wish to know why he does these things, but it is his tactics that confuse me. He always withdraws in the same direction: East always East. And he lets us see him do so… Why would he do that?"

Toran was startled by the thought for he had assumed Vorshaan had beaten a retreat in the face of superior numbers or force. He had assumed the direction was random and as the Holy Codex taught assumption was the wellspring of mistakes. Carefully Toran mused, "I had not considered that, but attacking only to withdraw again makes no sense. All he has achieved is to draw more reinforcements down upon his head. Yet the Dusk Prince is infamous for his cunning not his blood lust... so if his tactics are indeed deliberate what does he stand to gain?"

Toran wracked his brain but could not think of an answer; by any reckoning Vorshaan's tactics were folly. He must have known the Chapter would send all its forces to hunt him down; it made no sense at all… unless in doing so the Storm Heralds brought him something he wanted. Toran was stunned by the thought and he took a long moment to think about it, then the truth dawned on him and suddenly it all made sense. "Warp curse me as a thrice-damned fool," he swore then turned and began racing back out of the gully as fast as he could.

Frantically he keyed his vox on a wide channel, "Everybody return to the battleground, return now!"

"Have you lost your mind?" cut in Mylos over the vox, "You would have us abort the mission?"

"Vorshaan has been playing us from the very start," barked Toran as he dashed past the startled Novak, "The Dusk Prince attacked and withdrew, over and over and always in the same direction. He drew us further and further into the hills, then slipped behind us."

"How do you know this?" hissed Mylos over the vox.

"Just get back to the battlefield!" yelled Toran running onto the hillside and turning west, "Vorshaan knew we would rush reinforcements here, he must have left a ship hidden in orbit."

"You are making no sense, what are you talking about?" barked Mylos testily.

Toran put his head down and ran as fast as he could as he yelled, "Vorshaan needs to get off this planet but knows the PDF would intercept any civilian shuttle he could steal. He needed us to provide a means to get off-world, Vorshaan wants our Thunderhawk!"


	9. Chapter 9

Tenebris Resurget Chapter 9

The sun was barely a half circle over the horizon as two figures ran onto the battlefield, Toran and Bylan, racing hard as the serf practically turned blue with exertion. Novak and the other Storm Heralds were but a few minutes behind, but might as well have been on Terra for all the difference they could make. Ahead of them the battlefield was a smoking wasteland of debris, fresh corpses added to the piles of dead, many still oozing vital fluids. Toran scanned the piles of grey clad bodies and knew he had failed to protect them, but there was no sign of Techmarine Hevostan anywhere, he must have evacuated with the most precious relics in the first wave.

Before them they could see the Thunderhawk Transporter, its pilot's corpses strewn about as a midnight clad figure with large wings loomed over them. Vorshaan was here, yet he was not alone, Halis Paur had somehow got here first and was fighting the Dusk Prince with a savage fury. Halis blocked and spun and weaved with his combat knife but he was outmatched by the Dusk Prince. He caught the chainglaive on his combat blade but was pulled off balance as Vorshaan twisted his grip. The vicious edge of the Chainglaive swung round and caught Halis in the back of the leg, hamstringing him in a spray of blood. The Space Marines went down hard and Vorshaan laughed as he raised his polearm for the decapitating strike, but Toran had closed the distance and leapt to intervene.

As the blade descended the Sergeant threw himself forward and caught the grinding weapon with his own chainsword. Vorshaan looked up and chuckled as he said, "Good, I was worried I wouldn't get to kill you before I left." With a twitch Vorshaan reversed the direction of his Chainglaive but Toran was ready and was merely pushed back a step. A flurry of blows came at him but Toran had learned much from their last encounter and met them with expertly timed blows from his chainsword. He was desperately calculating angles and predicting avenues of attack, keeping ahead of the combat by the slimmest of margins. Every time his blade caught the haft he gunned the motor and the increased spin of the blades flung the polearm away with more force than he alone could generate.

Vorshaan was pushed back by the impenetrable defence and took a step backwards to reorient himself. The two Space Marines regarded each over for a second then lunged simultaneously, determined to finish this once and for all. This time it was Toran attacking, bringing his Chainsword down in savage cuts and powerful lunges, trying to outthink his opponent. Yet Vorshaan fell back at a steady pace, using his polearm to divert each attack off course, launching scything counterattacks with every stroke. Suddenly Vorshaan feinted right but struck left, his roaring blade slicing across Toran's midriff. The Sergeant gasped as he retreated, for that move had come out of nowhere. The Dusk Prince followed that up with another unexpected blow and another, each one totally different to any move he had made before. Toran fell back, fighting for his life and he realised the Traitor had more moves than he could grasp. Vorshaan seemed to realise it too and cried, "Predictable, so predictable. You will die just like your Brothers did!"

Toran heard the words and something within him snapped, a damn he did not know existed broke its levies, spilling out a torrent of raging anger. Toran cast aside all thoughts of strategy and reason, falling back on pure instinct. His arm was driven by an energy he had never felt before, pushing him to levels of fury he had not known he was capable of and he threw everything he had into a flurry of blows that were faster and more powerful than any he had ever known. All his grief, all his sorrow and loss flooded through him, driving him into a staggering rage and pushing his body into a furious assault. In the heart of his rage Toran was shocked to realise that he hated this Traitor, truly and deeply hated him. That was strange, for he had thought he knew what hatred was, but in that moment he realised that he merely held rebels in contempt, despised Heretics and loathed the Xeno but this… this fire in his gut was true hatred.

Hate flowed through Toran and he fought with a newfound strength and passion, his whole existence focussed on cutting down his enemy and avenging his brothers. His fury drove him to new heights of power, fighting with speed and strength he had never known he was capable of. The Traitor was the embodiment of everything foul and vile in the universe and Toran snarled at the cur rancid presence, determined to wipe out this stain from existence. He redoubled his efforts to cut Vorshaan down, knowing that the universe would be so clean once the Chaos Lord was dead.

Vorshaan kept falling back, his spinning style creating a glittering web of steel before him, he was hard pressed yet still his defence was sublime. For all his hatred and power Toran could not penetrate the Traitor's guard and the fatal blow eluded him. Never ceasing to parry Vorshaan stepped over a corpse and paused, his boot lodged under a broken ribcage. Then with a triumphant yell Vorshaan kicked upwards, launching the body at his opponent as effortlessly as a man would kick a ration can. Toran caught the unexpected weight in the midriff, a mass and inertia that would have crushed a man merely forced him off balance for a moment, yet it was enough to lower his guard and in that instant the Traitor attacked with a blur of flashing steel.

The chainglaive swung past his blade catch Toran in the side of the helm and ripping it to shreds. The roaring weapon tore ceramite to ribbons, sending jagged splinters flying as it carved deeper and deeper until it ripped out Toran's right eye. Agony flared through Toran's skull and he fell back desperately weaving his sword before him. His vision was filled with his own blood and so he was unprepared for the smash of the polearm's haft that followed. Toran was knocked backwards and toppled over onto the ground, feeling his weapons kicked from his grip by a pair of ceramite boots, leaving him defenceless.

Frantically Toran reached up and wrestled his broken helm from his skull, feeling like his face was on fire. He could sense the right side of his face was a horrifying mess of blood and broken bone around his shattered eye socket, and knew his eye was reduced to jelly he would never see out of that eye again. He blinked his other eye clear and through a red mist looked up at Vorshaan, standing over him with the Chainglaive pointed straight at his throat. The Dusk Prince's fanged helm looked down at him, enjoying seeing the Space Marine lying helpless before him and stated, "You provided some small amusement, but you are still not good enough."

Vorshaan pulled the polearm up high in both hands ready to end Toran's life but even as the stroke fell another player entered the game. From behind the Chaos Marine leapt a grey clad figure, grasping a broken blade in one hand and diving to tackle Vorshaan around the waist. It was Bylan and so focussed had Vorshaan been on enjoying his triumph that he had forgotten the serf was there. Vorshaan was caught off guard as the weight of the tackle threw them aside and they crashed to the ground. Through his blood soaked vision Toran could see that Bylan had plunged his knife up between armour plates, cutting the Night Lord deeply.

The serf struggled back to his feet but the Chaos Marine was faster, springing up seemingly untroubled by the knife in his side. Bylan was unarmed now, yet still tried to throw a punch but Vorshaan moved like lightning and struck first. With eye watering speed he punched his polearm out laterally, smashing it into Bylan's face to shatter teeth and break his nose. The Serf fell back, clutching his face as blood streamed down his chin and it proved a fatal mistake. Vorshaan spun on one foot and swung his chainglaive around, angling the serrated knife to plunge into Bylan's side.

Toran heart's screamed in denial but he was helpless to intervene. The serf seemed froze in shock, he coughed once bringing up a spray of blood before falling to his knees then onto his face. Vorshaan laughed at the sight, enjoying his victory and spun his polearm around to face Toran once more. The Traitor looked at the prone Sergeant and said, "So… any last words?"

Toran looked up at him and saw death yet he grinned through a face full of blood and said, "Only this: We are the Emperor's Storm".

Even with his helm on Vorshaan's body language betrayed puzzlement. He paused for an instant before a bolt round crashed off his pauldron, cracking the ceramite. He whirled around in outrage only to see Halis sitting up, with the moment the serf had bought he had crawled over to grab a fallen bolter and he held it in both hands as he yelled "We are His Wrath!"

Halis squeezed the trigger hard, releasing a fusillade of supersonic bolts at the Traitor. At such close range the salvo would had punched through his armour with ease but at the last instant Vorshaan swept his leathery wings up before him. Screaming bolts frayed and shredded his wings like parchment and the Chaos Marine roared in agony as his flesh was rent asunder. Black blood sprayed everywhere but his wings robed the rounds of their initial force and detonated them prematurely, so none of them went on to penetrate his armour.

With a final clunk the bolter ran dry and Vorshaan straightened up, pulling the tattered remains of his wings back as they dripped black blood. With one swift move he leapt forwards and kicked Halis in the side of the helm, knocking him onto his back again. Halis fell down as Vorshaan raised his Chainglaive like an executioner's axe, but it was too late, his time had run out. From afar came the cry of a dozen armoured figures emerging onto the battlefield; Toran's brothers and Mylos squad had finally arrived.

Vorshaan snarled at the sight then turned to run for the Thunderhawk but he paused by Toran's helpless form and spat, "I want you to know I could still kill you. I hold your life in my hands, but that would be no sport. I want you to remember this in the small hours of the night and know I defeated you. I want you to get better and seek me out. Perhaps next time you will be good enough to be worth killing."

Then he spun his Chainglaive into parade grasp and gave a jaunty salute before he bounded away and raced up the ramp of the Thunderhawk, broken wings flapping behind him. Toran wasted not a moment to roll over and blinked away blood from his vision, grabbing for his bolt pistol at his belt. He rolled back and saw Vorshaan at the controls of the Transporter and Toran levelled his bolt pistol to begin firing off rounds, but they deflected off the thick armour of the gunship.

As a dozen Space Marines ran into weapons range the Thunderhawk's engines roared and with a blast of downdraft it took off, turning on a column of thrust. The Transporter spun on the spot and the throttles opened wide. Toran was blown backwards across the blood soaked ground by the jet wash, he struggled not to roll over, holding up his hand before his one good eye and watching the tragedy unfold. Then the massive shape of the Transporter hurled itself forwards, accelerating far beyond any possible retribution. As the hurricane wind faded Toran could see the Thunderhawk soaring away into the setting dusk sun, taking Vorshaan to freedom.

The Traitor had escaped and all the sergeant could do was roar in denial and anger as he watched the Dusk Prince fly back into the stars.


	10. Chapter 10

Tenebris Resurget Chapter 10

The battlefield was quiet now, the fires had died out and the blood dried. Here and there lone Space Marines watched the perimeter while recovery teams laboured to salvage what little they could. Serfs solemnly gathered up the remains of Vorshaan's victims while the overseers mourned their young charges, who should never have been put in danger.

Mylos saw none of it though, for his attention was fixed on a Thunderhawk that sat cooling before him. The Sergeant was outwardly stern and unmoved but inside he was fuming, the Dusk Prince had played them for fools, luring them away from his objective and comprehensive outmanoeuvring them. The Storm Heralds had followed the Codex to the letter and yet been defeated. Vorshaan had known its prescriptions; he had known how they would react and had used that against them.

Beside him Sergeant Toran was standing straight, his head swaddled in bandages. Mylos was scornful of his counterpart's performance. Toran had been in a position to stop the Dusk Prince and yet let him get away. He could have ended the scum's life then and there but had been beaten down instead. Toran hadn't even had the good grace to die in combat, which would have redeemed his honour. This defeat was a black mark Toran would wear forever and Mylos was certain he would be feeling it in his hearts. He would be smug about that, save for the fact that he shared the shame.

The Thunderhawk's ramp lowered and Mylos saw a Captain striding down the slope, one with magnificent artificer armour and a noble face. He carried a double headed axe in one hand, a most potent relic from the Chapter's history. He was fierce and aggressive, driven and hungry for glory, he was Fourth Captain Jossat and he did not look happy to be here.

Mylos and Toran made the signs of the Aquila but Jossat only looked down his nose at them and sneered, "This is a fine mess you have set before me."

Toran spoke first, bowing deeply as he said, "Brother-Captain, we report that it was indeed Vorshaan we hunted. He outplayed us and stole a Thunderhawk…"

Jossat cut him off barking, "He did more than that, he beat you! You had a chance to end that scum's villainy but you failed. You both failed!"

Mylos started at that, failure the most condemning and unacceptable rebuke for any Astartes, to fail was an affront to all they stood for. Mylos swallowed his bile and uttered, "Captain, the fault does not lie…"

"Save it," Jossat growled angrily, "I gave you clear orders and you both fell short of the mark, were you part of my company I would have you both horse-whipped. As it is your lacklustre performance has been reported to your respective Chaplains, your rites of penance shall be long and arduous."

Mylos was aggrieved by the admonition and started, "Brother-Captain, the Traitor slew two Brothers. We strove to avenge them with all our hearts!"

Jossat glared at him and spat, "Then their spirits will lament, for their killer yet lives. This mark shall hang over the pair of you and glory shall not fall on you until you have expiated your shame."

Mylos could not say a word, his superior's rebuke was earned and appropriate. Space Marines were made to win no matter the odds, failure could not be tolerated. The ritual punishments reserved for such debacles would be arduous, a horsewhipping might be a kinder fate. Toran however spoke up to say, "We offer no excuses, we had a mission and fell short of success. We accept your condemnation wholeheartedly. Yet all is not lost, the Light of Terra is still in orbit, surely Vorshaan can't have got far."

Jossat's face fell and he said, "Unfortunately the Dusk Prince was more cunning than we realised, he had an Infidel raider powered down and waiting. He reached it before we could stop him and broke orbit. No Battlebarge can match his speed and the navy squadron are out of position to stop him. He is half-way to the warp jump point already and will Translate before we can catch up."

Mylos felt his outrage grow, their last chance to stop the fiend had evaporated. His anger waxed strong but he shoved it down and said, "Captain what shall we do next?"

Jossat uttered sternly, "You two get back to orbit with your squads. I shall take charge of this debacle and try to salvage something. Chapter Master Gorgall will want a report on what happened here and he shall hear both your names. Now get out of my sight."

The Sergeants saluted and turned to depart. Mylos was fuming at his rebuke and the other Sergeant seemed downbeat but not crushed; he seemed to think they would recover from this. Mylos was incensed and spat, "What?"

Toran replied, "Vorshaan won this day but the war isn't over, we shall see him again. Of this I am certain."

Mylos spat, "On that day he will take your head, of that I am certain."

"Maybe," Toran replied, "Maybe not."

Mylos had no response to that and turned to storm off, leaving Toran in his wake. This whole mission had been a fiasco and he was determined to put it behind him. As far as he was concerned if he never saw Toran again it would be too soon.


	11. Chapter 11

Tenebris Resurget Chapter 11

The Medicae chamber was a cold and sterile place, filled with IV lines and beeping monitors. Yet through that could still be heard the faint rumble of the Battlebarge's engines as it plied through the void. In one bed lay a body, comatose and inert, but the beeping of the machines declared he was alive. The body in the bed could easily have been mistaken for a large man but was in truth merely a boy, he was unconscious but alive, his breathing accompanied by a distinct mechanical rasp with every respiration he took. It was the serf Bylan and he lay oblivious to what had been done to him.

Standing at the end of the bed were two Transhumans, one in cream robes the other in a blue robe with a silver badge pinned on his bicep. This one's face was a mass of inflamed scar tissue and skin grafts, surrounding an augmetic eye. It sat in his eye socket like a large monocle, its unblinking red stare giving him a furious cast to his features. The pair of them stood awaiting the serf to regain consciousness and passed the time discussing the aftermath of their campaign.

Apothecary Memnos was saying, "The boy's recovery is progressing well, surprising considering the damage done to his physiology."

Sergeant Toran crossed his arms and stated, "His spirit is stronger than anyone gave him credit for, he will not yield now."

Memnos nodded and declared, "A small victory but one badly needed after the losses we sustained, two more brothers lost on top of those sacrificed to stop the invasion. A hollow victory indeed."

"You recovered their gene-seed," Toran commented, "Their legacy will live on and someday we shall have vengeance, this I swear."

"What of the Heretic?" queried Memnos who had spent the last two days locked in surgeries, including fitting Toran's new eye.

Toran growled in frustrated anger, "The stolen Transporter escaped the blockade, the PDF would not think to challenge a Thunderhawk. It met up with a dead escort, only it wasn't as dead as we thought. Captain Jossat is furious."

Memnos shook his head and said, "A dark day indeed, so much went wrong on that mountain but what concerns me most of all is what happened between you and Sergeant Mylos. I have at least seen you attempt to rise above such pettiness but Mylos refuses to acknowledge his failings. I must discuss our psychological screening programs with Chief Apothecary Lessall. Clearly not every flaw has been eliminated."

Toran was surprised to hear such a sentiment from the Apothecary and looked at him out of the corner of his eye, regarding his stern demeanour and uncompromising stance. And yet in his voice there was suggestion of discontent, of a soul who had seen in the Chapter that which should be noble and shining instead becoming tarnished. Casually is if were a matter of little import Toran remarked, "I have never had an opportunity to discuss Theological affairs with an Apothecary before, tell me what is your order believes in."

Memnos let out a grunt of a laugh and remarked, "Largely we believe in Chief Apothecary Lessall."

Toran said, "I confess I am surprised to hear this, but then he has been chief apothecary for many centuries."

"Save the honoured venerable Dreadnoughts there is not a soul alive in the Chapter who cannot remember a day he was not watching over us," remarked Memnos.

Before Toran could explore further there was a groan from the bed and Bylan stirred, Memnos scurried to check his vital signs and once he was satisfied nodded to Toran that all was well. Toran moved to stand by the bedside and waited long minutes for the boy to awaken as Memnos left. Eventually Bylan opened his bleary eyes and looked around the sterile room; confusion arose but he relaxed once he saw Sergeant Toran. He weakly tried to sit up but sank back then drew in a rasping breath and in a wheezing mechanical drone said, "+What Happened?+"

Bylan looked shocked at the sound of his own voice and grabbed his medical robes, ripping them apart to reveal the mass of scars that covered his chest. Metal plates covered his biceps and plastic tubes ran up into his throat and larynx. In horror Bylan tried to grab the tubing but when he tensed fell into a coughing fit. He panicked and tried to flail about, the mechanical wheezing growing more frantic as his fright grew.

Gently Toran placed one calloused hand upon his chest and held him down effortlessly, saying, "Relax child. Breathe just breathe, slow and steady like you were on the firing range."

Bylan sank back and his panic subsided, he drew in a rasping breath and in his rasping drone said, "+Master, What Has Become Of Me?+"

Toran looked upon the serf and said, "The Traitor Vorshaan struck you most grievously with his blade, your right lung was destroyed and the left pierced. Had you not been blessed with a multi-lung you would have died right there. Afterwards you were left comatose, many thought you should be allowed to die in honour, but I used my position as a Sergeant to get Hevostan and Memnos to replace your lungs."

"+Why?+" asked Bylan unable to grasp the situation.

Toran explained patiently, "You laid hands upon the Dusk Prince, a feat many ascended Initiates have failed to do. You saved my life and I owed you a debt, so I saved your life in return."

Bylan glanced down at his cybernetic chest and recoiled in disgust but it was not his physical form that distressed him for he said, "+I Am No Longer Fit Even For The Serfs, I Have Lost My Purpose+"

Toran drew in a slow breath and said, "Perhaps I was not clear, these are not third-rate implants from some unsanctified back street pedlar. These Augmetics are from the Light of Terra's reliquary, such as would be granted to an Initiate. They are far superior to your mortal lungs, if a little cumbersome. Your body has yet to adapt to the implants but once you become accustomed to them you will find your vitality greater than ever."

Bylan looked up and asked, "+Then I Am To Return To Service?+"

"Yes" replied Toran, "But not as a Serf."

Bylan had confused look on his face as Toran continued, "With these Augmetics it is no longer appropriate for you to remain a Serf. The Chapter has made a significant investment in you and it is expected to be repaid with blood and sacrifice. Which is why I had spoken to the Masters and petitioned that you be readmitted to Tenth Company."

Bylan practically leapt out of the bed at the news, for this was unprecedented, once dismissed from ascension there was no going back. To be given a second chance was unheard of in the ranks of the Space Marines. A look of wonder crept onto his face and he wheezed, "+Master, I Owe You My Thanks+".

Yet Toran slammed his palm hard down on the bed making Bylan jump as he roared, "No! Do not thank me. I am not favouring you and this is no reward. If you do this then you face a future of pain, hardship and sacrifice. You are aged now to receive the remaining implants; the agonies will be far greater than even a normal Scout endures, but that is only the start. There are trials and tests of character ahead, tribulations that break all but a handful: men stronger and sterner than you have failed the test. The Scout Company has agreed to give you a chance, but they will not lower their standards for any reason. If you wish to ascend you must pass every test, the same as any other Novice, there will be no preferential treatment. If you think this will be easy, if you think you deserve a reward, you will fail and die an agonising death. You must choose to do this selflessly and be ready to sacrifice all for the sake of others."

"+I Am Not Afraid+" replied Bylan still with a look of wonder in his eye.

"A child's answer" said Toran in a softer tone of voice, "Frankly the Masters were surprised I even petitioned, they thought it would be kinder to let you die. Yet the boy I saw on that field was willing to die, if he could be of purpose and that is what is required of you."

Bylan looked confused now as Toran said, "Understand this, the boy you are now will not survive the trails, this person will cease to be, one way or another. But I can offer you a chance to become someone greater, someone more noble and selfless. A Space Marine who has the power to make a difference in the galaxy."

He stood up and removed the badge from his robe, upon it was the marking of Ninth Company, then he placed it on the bedside. He said "If you survive the trails ahead, if you can become someone of worth, then there will be a place waiting for you in IXth Squad."

Then he walked out the door leaving Bylan struggling to grasp the new universe opening before him.

(The adventure continues when the Storm Heralds return in Finis Fide)


End file.
